


blue

by slimeblocks



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, It's a mix, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:48:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28103457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slimeblocks/pseuds/slimeblocks
Summary: wilbur's fondest memories, summarised.
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 3
Kudos: 33





	blue

**Author's Note:**

> uh this is my first! dsmp work! i hope u enjoy!!

blue is a pretty color.

ghostbur knew that much.

he clutched the color to his chest, keeping it close, the hues reminding him of… of _home_ , and- and of _protection_ , and of- 

...

with his limited memory, it reminded him of very few things, but, he figured, what he could remember was important.

the blue of the sky, in one of the earliest memories he had, of him laying on his back in the soft grass of philza’s safest world, the one where things didn’t go bump in the night, where warm beds were the only thing you slept on (unless you were techno and fell asleep on the floor) and where fire wasn’t such a scary concept. the wind comes to greet him, blows through his hair and the grass beside him. he smiles. he feels safe.

the blue of colored cardboard swords, crudely scribbled on as a child would do, quickly losing its color as twin swords smashed together over, and over again, the sound of two twin laughs echoing in the air as they sparred, not for the first time, and certainly not the last. 

(the bandaids he gets across his nose and his knee are blue. techno points it out. wilbur bites him for poking him. they scuffle again.)

the blue of the blanket, his favorite one, the one he shared with techno when they were younger, the one they’d both hide under, wilbur’s face pressed into techno’s neck as they hid from the shadows together, and the blue of his striped pajamas, opposite of techno’s pink. it contrasted the blue of the night sky, the dark, swirling navy that held the stars he loved so much as he lay on his back in the soft grass, this time much older, in a world more dangerous, but the night sky never changed. he lays on the same blanket, and wishes that the war was over. 

(he doesn’t ever get his wish. not until after he’s long gone.)

the blue of niki’s apron, her favorite, stained pale with wheat flour in some areas, and brown with cocoa bean paste in another, the smell of fresh bread wafting through her little bakery, with wilbur perched on one of her tables, strumming his guitar as they sang songs together, songs he doesn’t quite remember anymore, but smiles at the memory of anyways.

the blue of l’manburg’s uniform, darker than niki’s apron, but the color still visible even after days of work and dirt coming to cover it in a thin layer, still visible even after tubbo fell down a hill that one time, making tommy laugh so hard he cried, and his uniform got ripped up and fundy had to repair it.

( _“FOR L’MANBURG!”_ he screams. his friends scream it back. he smiles. the color of the l’manburg uniform looks good on his friends, on his son, on his younger brother. on him too.)

the blue of tommy’s eyes, a sharp, bright, sparkling blue, one that would never fail to remind him of mischief and scraped knees and shouted, unadulterated bravery.

tommy was brave.

so very brave.

brave even when blue bruises littered his body from combat, from fighting for his country ( _for wilbur, though that thought is pushed down. he didn’t force him to fight. he didn’t. **he didn’t.**_ ) brave when the blue sky was filled with ash, and the crystal blue water was stained red, and when the blue of his l’manburg uniform was turned into nothing more than scraps.

(brave, even when his blue eyes turned to grey, absorbing the negativity and exhaustion that was so prominent around him then, though the blue in them struggled valiantly. brave, even when his legs trembled when he stood, when his voice shook as he shouted at wilbur in the ravine, when he slapped him, tried to reason with him, and wilbur refused. 

wilbur refused, and he watches with cold emptiness as the last bits of blue swirl into nothingness, consumed by the grey that would never go away, would forever stay, and it would always be his fault.

he desperately, _desperately_ missed the blue of tommy’s eyes.)

_(he doesn’t feel empty anymore. he wants his brother back, he’d do anything, please, just let him be blue again.)_

blue reminded him of so many things. 

things he’d lost, too

the blue of the water, exploding across the view from the opening in the cliffside, after an explosion that had rocked the land to its core, shaking him in such a way, the same way the screams of his little brother, his brave, brave little brother had. 

the blue of his father’s eyes, filled with tears and regret and apologies that went unsaid, filled with “i love you”s come just a little too late, of “you deserved better”s that came as realisations found dead in the night, when he was alone, and cold, and needed someone to hold him and remind him that he was okay. 

_“you’re my son!”_ was what was said instead.

they were not the words he wanted to hear.

it was okay, though.

he didn’t know what he wanted to hear anyways.

(philza’s eyes were greying too. he wonders why he never noticed it before.)

the blue of diamonds, diamond swords, shimmering with the purple of whispered enchantments, earned with hard work. the coldest blue of all, wilbur thinks, as he feels it enter his abdomen and come out the other side, a broken sob shouldering it’s way out of phil’s body. wilbur can feel the air in his lungs, and it feels like he’s breathing for the first time, even with a sword in his chest, and the familiar taste of salt makes its way into his mouth. he’s crying, why is he crying? he can’t remember, doesn’t want to remember why-

a familiar sob makes its way out of ghostbur as he clenches a hand in his sweater, over the hole in his ghostly, translucent body, shimmering like the enchantments had. he sobs, and sobs, the pain never going away. he sinks to his knees, and distantly, in his pain, he thinks he can feel his hand slicking with blood that isn’t there, that can’t be there, but he feels the red that stains his hands anyways.

blue is the color of his happiest memories.

so why couldn’t he remember what happiness feels like?

**Author's Note:**

> hi hello follow my twitter if u want maybe @slIimeblocks :)


End file.
